The fourth and seventh of July. In an attempt to introduce our BT clients to our new colleagues at Agency.com to each other one of our more patriotic ex-pats organised a dinner party at the Big Easy BBQ and Crabshack.
Yes, there is such a place in London. To most people's surprise.
It was predictably tacky -- wood panelling and wagon wheels and plastic cacti and an annoying two man band playing 70's rock and wondering why the audience wasn't singing along to Sweet Home Alabama. And some of the worst cole slaw ever tasted. But the margaritas went down well, and the tequila shots took the edge off of being surrounded by so many drunk American bankers. You see, Chelsea is known locally as tosserville because of the large, obnoxious financial American ex-pat community who crowd the Starbuck's in their flipped up polo shirts and ray-bans. Shudder.
I enjoyed the irony, however, of celebrating my country's independence from the country I fled back to. Thing how much easier my bloody visa would be if we had never declared un-dependence!
Three days later I was sitting in the anteroom of the much more refined Claridges Hotel. Famed for its high tea, Claridges is a stunning piece of art deco filed with dowager type women having their Sunday lunch. We were there for an all too different reason. Some enterprising person booked the table for six in the kitchen of the Gordon Ramsey at Claridges restaurant. It sounds tacky, but it was sublime. Ramsey is the only Michelin 3-star chef in London and lunch, whilst pricey, was exquisite. Seven courses of foie gras, scallops, lamp, sea bass, etc. all accompanied by bottles of wine with each course. Lunch was more than six hours, but the staff and the company were delightful and it was a decadent way to spend a rainy Sunday in London.
Yes, there is such a place in London. To most people's surprise.
It was predictably tacky -- wood panelling and wagon wheels and plastic cacti and an annoying two man band playing 70's rock and wondering why the audience wasn't singing along to Sweet Home Alabama. And some of the worst cole slaw ever tasted. But the margaritas went down well, and the tequila shots took the edge off of being surrounded by so many drunk American bankers. You see, Chelsea is known locally as tosserville because of the large, obnoxious financial American ex-pat community who crowd the Starbuck's in their flipped up polo shirts and ray-bans. Shudder.
I enjoyed the irony, however, of celebrating my country's independence from the country I fled back to. Thing how much easier my bloody visa would be if we had never declared un-dependence!
Three days later I was sitting in the anteroom of the much more refined Claridges Hotel. Famed for its high tea, Claridges is a stunning piece of art deco filed with dowager type women having their Sunday lunch. We were there for an all too different reason. Some enterprising person booked the table for six in the kitchen of the Gordon Ramsey at Claridges restaurant. It sounds tacky, but it was sublime. Ramsey is the only Michelin 3-star chef in London and lunch, whilst pricey, was exquisite. Seven courses of foie gras, scallops, lamp, sea bass, etc. all accompanied by bottles of wine with each course. Lunch was more than six hours, but the staff and the company were delightful and it was a decadent way to spend a rainy Sunday in London.
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